


Cracks in the marble

by sherlocked221



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Drugs, F/M, First Time, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 08:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19460155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: You're a Baker Street Irregular, one of the few female ones Mr Holmes keeps handy. One night, you let yourself into 221B in hopes of helping out on a case, only to find Mr Holmes quite intoxicated, and hardly himself."The drugs he took that night have dulled his immense intelligence, ripped from him his cool, reasoning mind and returned to him the base desires of any human that he so rarely seems to possess."





	Cracks in the marble

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to something Jeremy Brett said about the way he plays Sherlock Holmes, if I recall correctly. He is constantly one way, emotionless, practically a machine, but at times, you see the cracks in the marble...

****

221B is in darkness when I arrive. Not a light peeks through Mrs Hudson’s flat, nor the shine of street lamps seem to penetrate the shadows. Though that is strange enough, I’m hardly dissuaded from entering. I doubt Mr Holmes will mind. And I have frequented these apartments in Baker Street enough to be able to navigate it with my eyes closed if I must. I know exactly how long the narrow corridor is leading up to the stairs, how many stairs leading up to Mr Holmes’ flat, where every piece of furniture is in the drawing room. I stride up the stairs, where I was surprised to find the front door open. A soft, dull, orange glow seeped out and bathes me in its colour as I stand on the threshold of the room. The light emanates from the single lamp on a table by Mr Holmes’ armchair, where the figure of Mr Holmes himself sits, his knees drawn up to his chin, his hands pressed together as though in prayer. 

From here, I can ’ t see if his eyes are open or not. I ’ m not even sure if he knows I ’ m here. It ’ s unusual, but on those rare occasions when he is chin-deep in puzzles and papers, he misses those indicators that his mind is typically finely tuned to and may not hear someone entering his home. It does not seem that he is in the depths of a case, but I cannot be sure. Perhaps he is deep within his own mind, working out the details of a most peculiar puzzle. 

It is silent. Eerily so. Even the whistle of the wind seems unable to disturb the silence. The weather outside, which I have just come in from, is ferocious, and yet you would not think so if you were standing where I am. The room is as still as if it was built in the eye of a storm. It ’ s warm too. My skin prickles and burns with the sensation of coming from the cold into the heat. I feel colour flush to my cheeks, as though the gold glow paints my pale skin. 

I am beginning to think I should leave. The atmosphere is hardly welcoming, and if Mr Holmes has a case, I doubt he would think much of a girl like me hanging about him looking for some small excitement. I turn to go, when something winks at me from an open draw. Glass and metal catch the light at the right angle, flashing at me like a warning. I peer over at it, standing upon my toes to see inside the draw. 

A syringe stares back at me.

Mr Holmes makes no point of hiding his terrible vice. He and Dr Watson reference it often enough. But I had never seen it. I hoped I would never have to. But now that I do, I avert my eyes and start to back away. 

I ’ m stopped just shy of the top step. 

“ Y/N. ”

He had heard me. He knew I was there, and he said nothing? I pause, a little on edge. I know what drugs can do to a person. You see it when you live on the street, even for the shortest amount of time. And to think, a man like Mr Holmes, already so erratic and excitable, subjects himself to that sort of thing, it understandably unsettles me. Still, he turns quite lethargically, swinging one long leg off the seat.

“ You ’ ll forgive me- ”

“I should leave. ” I suggest, taking another step towards the stairwell. However, the changeability seems to kick in, and all of a sudden he has leapt to his feet and begins to approach me. It ’ s enough to stop me dead in my tracks. 

“ No, no. ” He insists, in such a low voice, he is practically whispering, “ Come in. ”

He walks past the open draw as he invites me in, and closes it with a swift sweep of his hand. Gingerly, I do as he tells me. Responding to his quietness by matching his whispering tone and lightly tip toeing my way in. To my surprise, he does not stop approaching me. We are soon mere inches from one another, standing in the middle of the lowly lit room. 

Mr Holmes is drenched in the soft light. His eyes, which are usually a blue or green, are more like molten rock, his pupils so wide they almost eclipse his irises. Though I know this is a side effect of the terrible drug he takes, I can ’ t help thinking how mesmerising he looks. He ’ s a great deal taller than me too. I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. Otherwise, I am staring at his slender neck, or firm, clothed chest. I cannot even tell the colour of his suit, for it is so dark and so tinged with the colour of the light. His translucent skin seems to flicker like a flame. He is standing so close, I would be willing to believe he is not truly there. 

If I did not feel his breath on my face. 

My own has shallowed. My hammering heart and chest demand attention. It will not let me ignore it. I only hope that Mr Holmes does, or does not notice at all. He has such an intense expression on the side of his face not shrouded in shadows that it seems almost possible he might not take note of it. I swallow, clearing my suddenly clogged throat. I have no idea what is going on, and though I worry by speaking I may be interrupting something, I cannot stand in this silence much longer.

“ I am sorry to call so- ”

My attempt is cut off as Mr Holmes brings a finger to his lips. His eyes flutter a little as he lifts his head, and once I have sufficiently silenced, he removes the finger and opens his mouth. 

“ I ask only that you do not talk, unless you object to anything. ”

Object? I do as he asks of me. I close my mouth, swallow again and stand to attention. Perhaps he wishes to give me a task. He may be on a case and needs my assistance. He may think it fortunate that I came here of my own accord. It means he does not have to spend time seeking me out. 

I wait, but no instruction escapes his mouth. Not any sound comes from him in fact. As I wait, I begin to feel something at my waist. It feels like a spider, or some such creeping insect on me. My eyes dart down to swat it away, but I am met with another, far stranger sight.

Mr Holmes ’ hand, his fingers cup the curve of my hips with a tender, gentle touch. Already my chest has been heaving, and the feather-light sensation in and of itself has only worsened it. Yet now knowing what it is does nothing to soothe it. I am practically panting, staring down at my side. 

His hand does not remain there. It snakes towards my back, drawing me closer to him. Soon, I can see nothing but his shoulder just above my own, so I turn my head. I do not see anything more however, because as soon as I have faced Mr Holmes, his arm lifts me again onto my toes, my body is pressed against his, and my lips are pried open with his own. My immediate instinct is to close my eyes, but when the reality of the situation dawns on me, they open again with great speed, and I see Mr Holmes closer than I ever have before. 

I confess to you that for the longest time, I have felt something towards this great man that I cannot describe. I adore being around him. I am fascinated by him. I have felt this infatuation for a long time, and I tell you that I thought it would never be reciprocated. Well, it is not. I know that, even as he kisses me. What, to others, may seem like a loving display of affection finally given between two friends, I cannot believe is actually that. I am sure the drugs in his finely wired system has caused such dysfunction that he has lost all inhibitions. Or they have dulled his immense intelligence, ripped from him his cool, reasoning mind and returned to him the base desires of any human that he so rarely seems to possess. 

It is a terrible thought to have, and I am terrible too, for as much as I believe I should end this, I cannot. For my own pleasure, I take advantage of a man who I know would otherwise never think to touch me in such a way as he is now. I lay my hands on his solid chest, clawing lightly as his tight waistcoat. When, with the hand not wound around my waist, he cups the back of my head to kiss me deeper, I stand up taller so that he can reach with ease. I press myself against him harder to stabilise myself, and to feel him, to really feel him against me. 

We kiss like this for a time, which may be over an hour, or under a minute. To me, it seems far too short, and when he stops, I long for more. But he has not finished. The opiate has played such a game with his mind that he takes my hand- my hand, not my wrist, or arm, but takes me palm to palm, his fingers intertwined with mine- and leads me to his bedroom. Only then to I drag my heels, looking at him, unconvinced. If I knew him to be of sound mind, I may have followed without hesitation, but the knowledge that he is intoxicated, and witnessing the extent of the intoxication makes me reluctant (or makes me feel as though I should be reluctant.)

I also recall that Dr Watson must only be up those stairs, a second, narrow set of stairs leading onto a short landing and another bedroom. My eyes dart up towards it, wondering whether the doctor is asleep. I do so hope he is.

Mr Holmes feels me dragging on his arm. He turns back and draws me closer to him once more, seeing the grave expression on my face.

“ Do you object? ” He asks.

“ Mr Holmes …” I reply, breathlessly, after a long hesitation. I know not what to say, what, if any, objection I should have to this. Or I do know what objection I have, but I cannot bring myself to say it. 

“ I asked something of you. ” He reminds me, his voice even quieter than it had been before,  “ If cannot you adhere to it, I ask you to say so. ”

“ But …”

“ And if you can, I ask you to say nothing. ”

I open my mouth, but with only a half-hearted protest on the tip of my tongue, I let him pull me from it, pull me from the room, and take me into his. 

I have been in here perhaps once before. It looks vaguely familiar. I may have only seen it from the drawing room, come to think of it, but it is a small room, quite unkempt. It reminds me of his mind. Messy, busy, only he would be able to navigate it, and quite amazing when you get a glimpse of it. I mean, there are what I assume to be trophies from cases, grand jewels, photographs, newspaper clippings, scraps of paper and parchment with his own scrawls on it, two more pipes that I do not think I have seen before and clothes folded everywhere. There is one, unmade, single bed pushed up against the back wall, and a window with the blinds and curtains drawn over it, a tall wardrobe sits by the doorway, half open with papers- not clothes- spilling from it and a bedside table, which I would have mistook to be one large, leaning pile of boxes, books and paper had it not been for the smooth corner of wood poking out from it.

It is messy, but I feel as though there is a system to it all. I feel as though I am standing inside his head, which is even more an intimate thing than what we have been doing- or what we continue to do once the door is shut. 

Once more, the detective snakes his arms around me, though this time to fiddle with my lacing. I can feel the lacing being tugged through the eyes, and the dress becoming looser and looser until the bodice falls away from my back. Then he begins on my corset. All the while, he has returned to kissing me and I, since I now cannot stop this, kiss him back, matching his intensity as best I can. I am a little off balance. You can forgive me for that. I am, after all, kissing a man who I feel a great deal for. It is no small matter. Not to me. 

I wonder whether I should begin to remove his clothes as he is doing to me. My hands are once again lain on his chest, gripping it slightly. It is exciting enough to feel him beneath my fingers, to know that his flesh is separated from me only by the thin fabric of his suit and shirt. It is overwhelming, in fact, and I struggle to build up the confidence to do much more than that to him. One hand does reach a little higher, fingering his collar so close to his bare neck, but that is as far as I can go.

He, on the other hand, seems to possess no such hesitation. He pulls open the back of my corset. I feel my breasts sit free from its constraints, but pressed against my clothes, and against him. A rush of warm pleasure courses through me, causing me to steal my lips from him, and gasp. He reoccupies my mouth a moment later, while he pries my hands off him to thread the sleeves of my dress off my arms. Now this has me gasping for air. In only a moment, he will see me nude. I know I cannot stop it, and I do not really desire to, yet still I tense up, tear my mouth from his hand watch what he is doing. He seems to watch me, do not even look down at what he is doing, as though he cares not what I look like. 

My dress pools around me, followed swiftly by my corset and petticoat. Instinctively, I slide my feet out of my shoes and peel my stockings off with my toes. 

Then I look up. I meet his gaze. I stand before him, half held by him, like an auction horse. Still, he does not look. I do not think I interest him particularly. Suddenly, he feels more like Mr Holmes than he has for much of the evening. He has not a mind like every other man. He is not particularly moved by the female form. There is something else that he desires, and I do not even believe that he does. It is the drugs. They have sparked something in his mind, awoken something base in him. It cannot bring him to want what he never has, but it can do this to him. 

And in all honestly, though I probably should care, I do not. Should I be offended? Should I want more? Should I want to be more important? I do not. I let him scoop me up in his arms and lead me with his lips to the bed. He lays me down, then leaves me, standing in the middle of the room, facing the door, to remove his own clothes. I watch, panting, as he does so. 

He first sweeps off his jacket and hangs it clumsily in his wardrobe. He now wears only his tight waistcoat and billowing white shirt on his thin torso. He next removes his shoes and socks, several times more elegantly than I had, and goes to unbutton his trousers. Though I cannot see what this looks like, my mind, which is swimming in my own heady intoxication of this man, paints a vivid picture. The movement of his long fingers, the way the fabric of the trousers parts and falls at his waist, the look upon his face as he does this. Once he has unbuckled them, he does not take them off. He turns towards me and removes his waistcoat. That, he lets fall to the floor, followed swiftly by his shirt. Bare flesh. There is no escaping it now. His translucent colour glints now in the very barest of light. He has not turned a lamp on or anything, so I only see through the illumination seeping through the gap under the door. It is enough, however, as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can see the gentlest smattering of dark hair on his chest, the small line of it running from his navel downwards. I can see the shadow of his ribs, his collar bone, his narrow shoulders. I am particularly fascinated by his arms, which look thin, but strong, as though the muscles and bones are beneath the thinnest layer of skin. 

He strides over to me next. I see the white of undergarments poking through the fly of his trouser. I am fixated by it, watching it until I cannot anymore, as he lays beside me and helps me onto his hips. I feel clumsy as I climb on top of him. It feels quite wrong, so very forbidden, but perhaps it is due to that that it excites me so. A tingle from between my legs rushes up my spine, making me gasp. 

Mr Holmes seems hardly affected. Certainly not like me. I am out of breath, off-balance, my head is swimming. I keep looking at the door, as though I expect Dr Watson or Mrs Hudson to burst through and find me in such a state. His movements, however, are as precise as ever. His gaze, though seemingly bigger with the dilation of his pupils, is still sharp and serious. Had I been going only on that, ignoring everything other indication that he was not himself, I would have said that the drugs have caused very little difference in him. He does not seem like others that I have witnessed intoxicated. If anything, I ’ d say they have mellowed him, made him lazier, slightly slower. His more erratic movements are fewer and further between. 

He knots his fingers in my hair and brings me down to lay on top of him. He kisses me again.

I am surprised at myself, in all honesty. I thought I would be far more nervous in the face of such a thing. I am not referring to any encounter I expected to have with Mr Holmes, as I have never expected or believed such a thing would happen. If the idea ever did manifest itself in my mind, it would be mere fantasy, and in fantasies, we have nothing to fear.

No, I am instead referring to my first. I am a respectable girl, and I may have done much to survive while living on the streets, but I have never resorted to that, and never shall. So yes, this is my first time. Perhaps it is the guiding wisdom of Mr Holmes that has kept me from sparking a nervousness in that respect. It truly is like a fantasy. I have nothing to fear.

That is, until the moment that his hand travels down his own body and dips into his trousers. I had not realised at first, not until I felt the hot member pressing against my stomach. My eyes fall upon it with a great curiosity. Holmes watches me, as I have broken yet another kiss, but says nothing. He waits. I know what he waits for. He gives me a moment to object. I need only speak, and I know that he will stop. But object? I do not. I could not. I look up at him and tell him with my gaze that I have no protest. In response, he guides me to sit up, lifts my hips off his and takes himself in hand. For the first time in what feels like the longest time, he opens his mouth and tells me,

“Prepare yourself.”

I do so. I cling to the waistband of his trousers with one hand and plant the other firmly on his chest. I do not watch. I am too fascinated with the look on his face as he guides himself into me. Holmes’ expression varies little from its seriousness, save for the cracks in the marble that show. The cracks here present a bliss, a pleasure, in his eyes, the smoothing of the lines on his face. His lips curl upwards for a split second. They look red and bitten. And his chest, though I cannot hear heavy breathing, I can feel it rise and fall rapidly.

First, I feel something press between my legs. It is a sensation that is utterly pleasurable, and so very forbidden. I am reminded for a moment that Dr Watson is only on the next floor, no doubt sleeping through all this. If he knew, what would he say? What would he do? I cannot imagine. Then, there is a more forceful feeling. I feel as though I am split open, stretched. A bite of pain causes a cry to escape my mouth.

Immediately, Mr Holmes stops.

I realise my eyes are closed. I open them and meet Mr Holmes’ gaze. He waits for an objection. When he is sure none will come, he presses a finger to his lips once more. I know it will be difficult, I know he knows that it will be too, but I force my lips shut and brace myself once more.

The feeling is actually not abhorrent. Pain is usually a feeling one avoids and cannot enjoy. This one, however, I seem to crave more of. I push myself down, as Mr Holmes continues to carefully guide himself upwards. Once almost the entirety of his length is buried inside of me, there is a wonderfully intense feeling. My legs shiver in response.


End file.
